


This Might As Well Just Happen

by LadyLondonderry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bodyswap, Canon Compliant, Crack, Implied Masturbation, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24413767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLondonderry/pseuds/LadyLondonderry
Summary: You swap bodies with Harry Styles. Louis Fucking Tomlinson is also there.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 72
Kudos: 230
Collections: WANKFEST 2020





	This Might As Well Just Happen

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear reader.
> 
> In order to read this fic, you must presuppose two things:  
> 1\. You own a cat  
> 2\. You probably don't live in America. This is apparent because you have sick time saved up.
> 
> That is all!

Waking up is not a fun experience for you on a typical weekday. You have a job, and you have to wake up too early in order to go to said job, and even though your alarm is set to  _ Teenage Kicks _ by One Direction, for some reason a few months ago your phone has started glitching and now will only play the basic  _ radar _ alarm that comes preinstalled on iPhones, so even that small happiness has been taken away from you.

That is why, this morning, waking up a  _ distressingly peaceful _ experience. 

You can feel sunlight warming your back, the sheets beneath you are cool and soft. This isn’t right. You’re supposed to be getting up well before the sun rises. Also, you’ve been sleeping on the couch all week because your room has been too hot since summer has started in full force. 

You’ve never been late to work before. You wonder what happens to people who are late to work. Are you going to get written up? You’re not even sure what that  _ means. _

You crack open an eye and immediately you realise you must have certifiably lost your mind. 

The room is expansive, with neutral paint on the walls and fairy lights strung up all around. There’s tactfully phallic art on the walls. The bed that you’re on is clearly bigger than a double, maybe bigger than a queen, and you’re not alone. 

Louis Fucking Tomlinson is within slapping distance. 

(You wouldn’t slap Louis Fucking Tomlinson. Obviously. But… you could). 

“Holy shit,” you whisper, in reverence. 

Your voice is much deeper than it should be.

Oh no.

You look down at your hands and you are abjectly horrified to find that they are  _ large _ , with a design painted on the nails that you would have to hire a specialist to even hope to replicate.

Your arm is  _ covered  _ in tattoos.

You look a little closer to home and find that your chest is, well, something to be admired.

Also, clearly recently waxed.

_ “Holy shit,”  _ you whisper again. 

Louis Fucking Tomlinson stirs.

“Babe,” he says, his voice shockingly deep on account of being clouded with sleep. “Darling. It’s too early. You can fawn over my beauty at a later hour.”

He shimmies close enough to throw an arm over you, lying tummy-down with his face buried in a pillow. There are many pillows in this bed. There are  _ so many _ pillows in this bed. 

And okay, you  _ do _ take a moment to fawn over his beauty, because he  _ is _ possibly the most gorgeous human you’ve ever seen. He’s also shirtless. 

But then the gravity of the situation hits you again. 

“Um,” you say, trying to back up but hitting the edge of the bed. “There’s a problem.”

Louis scrunches up his face before opening one eye and looking suspiciously at you. “I’m not having sex with you before you’ve brushed your teeth,” he says. 

Oh god. “No,” you say, and now you’re  _ also _ self conscious about your breath! This is terrible. “Oh god. You’re not going to believe me.”

At this, Louis opens both eyes. He withdraws his arm from you. You miss it. “Let me guess,” he says. “You’re not Harry Styles.”

It’s… suspicious how quickly he’s caught on to this. Wait, is this a sex roleplay for them? It had better not be a weird sex roleplay where Harry pretends to have amnesia. You’ve never thought about it before, but you decide that you do  _ not _ want to know that much about their sex life. 

“No,” you say. “I’m not Harry Styles.”

Louis sighs. He rolls onto his back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He always does this,” he mutters. 

“He… does?” you ask. You are concerned. You are  _ very  _ concerned. 

“Yes,” says Louis. “And I need coffee. Also, you might want to look away because I don’t sleep with pants on.”

Obediently, you are quick to turn around, the sheets getting wrapped around you. You also cover your eyes, just to be safe. Mostly safe from yourself, because you actually think it might be rather nice to catch a look at the Butt, and you do not trust your own self not to try to sneak a peek. 

You hear Louis rummaging around for a bit and letting out a few more heavy sighs before he says, “Alright, I’m decent. I’m going to go start the coffee pot. Also, Harry only sleeps with socks on. His pants are in the dresser over there.” He points to a large ornate chest of drawers before muttering to himself, “You’d think he’d at least put some on as a courtesy to his own guests.”

“Okay,” you squeak as he leaves the room. Squeaking sounds ridiculous in Harry Styles’s voice. 

Oh no, now you’re going to have to put on pants. 

What if you see  _ Harry’s dick? _

You don’t want to see that. You’ve avoided googling for a reason.

Being careful to keep your gaze skyward, you make your way out of bed and over to the chest of drawers. You pull open the top drawer, but you underestimate just how strong Harry’s body is (which — his arms are huge. You should have been prepared for this). The pants inside are all very colorful, and you choose a blue and white striped pair of boxer briefs with a little bow in the front. 

Putting them on is a little more difficult while you’re trying not to look  _ down there, _ but you manage eventually. You trip a lot. It could be that you’re not used to Harry’s body, or it could be that Harry naturally trips a lot. You’ve never body swapped with anyone before, you wouldn’t know. 

Okay, pants acquired… You probably need more than just pants. Did Louis put on more than pants? You’re not sure! But, just to be safe… You should probably cover all these nipples so you don’t get distracted. 

You pull open the drawer below the pants drawer, and then  _ slam it shut. _ It is full of unmentionables. You won’t mention them. 

The drawer below that one has sweats, though. Hoody and joggers. The ones you put on definitely don’t match, but that’s fine. Everything is weird. 

Leaving the bedroom, it takes you a while to find Louis again, because the house is  _ huge _ and you have not been here before. You just woke up here. 

Louis is, in fact, fully dressed, although he’s sporting a nice case of bedhead. “You can help yourself to coffee or whatever,” he says, tilting his head toward a number of machines that look like they could make coffee. There’s a Keurig at the end that looks safest, and well. It would be impolite  _ not _ to have any, wouldn’t it? Louis has coffee (in a mug that reads  _ Blow Me _ across the side), so it only makes sense.

He’s sitting on a bar stool, swinging his legs so it twirls back and forth. You hover nearby, feeling too awkward to ask if there’s milk for the coffee. Wait, you’re in Harry Styles’ body. Would milk ruin his muscles? Doesn’t he put butter in his coffee? You heard that in an interview once. 

“What’s your phone number?” Louis Fucking Tomlinson asks.

Caught off guard, you first start to give him your childhood home phone number before realising and starting over. Louis gives you a look that says  _ dear Lord, _ but he goes with it, keying it into his phone and then holding it up to his ear.

You watch in fascination and horror. Oh God. Louis Fucking Tomlinson now has his number in your phone. Oh  _ God _ that means you have a record of Louis Fucking Tomlinson’s number  _ calling you. _

Wait, who’s going to pick up? You’re right here.

“Harold Edward Fucking Styles Tomlinson,” Louis shouts into the phone, making you jump and splash coffee out of your mug.

You hear the echo of your own voice through his phone, but can’t make out what you? He? is saying. 

“Every fucking time. Can we for  _ once  _ just—” Louis gesticulates with his free hand. “You can’t keep doing this whenever— …  _ No, _ Babe, what if you swap with someone who has to do something  _ important— …  _ Jesus Fucking Christ, no. I’m  _ not _ doing that but you need to get your ass  _ home _ and— fine.” He lowers the phone and looks at you. “Harry wants to know what your cat’s name is.”

Oh. So Harry Styles is definitely in your body. Cool cool cool cool. “Batcat,” you say. “But we also call her Baby Bitch.”

Louis gives you what seems to be an approving nod. “Cat’s name is Batcat,” he says. “Now pet the cat and fucking come home. … What do you  _ mean _ you’re at  _ work?” _

Oh god. Harry Styles is posing as you and is at your work. This seems like it’s probably a disaster. If he gets you fired there’s no way you can explain that on a resume later.

“Alright, fine. Take a—” he covers the phone with his hand and looks at you again. “Do you have a sick day he can use?”

You shrug. “I think so,” you say. You don’t really know. You don’t really know anything right now. It occurs to you that you should be checking Harry’s body for new secret tattoos, maybe? 

You look down and see his weird feet and decide not to.

“Yes, just tell them you threw up in the toilets or something! … Fine, yes, see you at home…” He glances over at you and then lowers his voice. “Yeah babe, love you too.” 

Considering he offered morning sex like fifteen minutes ago, you’re not sure why  _ that’s _ the embarrassing thing.

Louis puts his phone down on the counter and then swivels to face you. “You understand, of course, that no one will believe you if you tell them that this happened,” he says, very businesslike. 

You nod.  _ You _ wouldn’t believe you. You maybe don’t believe you  _ now. _

“Right,” he says. “Well, this is all Harry’s fault. It’s always Harry’s fault.” He takes a long drink from his mug. “He didn’t do the dishes last night.”

“Is that…  _ also _ Harry’s fault?” you hazard a guess, not sure where this is going.

“Well yes, because it was  _ his job,” _ Louis says, rather petulantly. “But he said that since they were  _ all _ my dishes we should switch dish days. But that’s how he does it!” He throws his hands up. “He can talk anyone into anything! This is how he ended up with a fucking music video about puppies! But if we switched dish days then he was going to be out of the country on  _ his _ dish day and I would have to do them for the next week and he always makes enough freezer meals for me to eat while he’s gone which is  _ wonderful _ but then there are  _ so many dishes _ and I just  _ don’t want to have to soak the pans for once!” _ He pauses to take a breath. “So. Whenever we fight about dishes he does this.”

“He… swaps bodies with a stranger?” you ask, because this doesn’t seem any clearer. Adorable, perhaps, but not clearer.

“He…” Louis covers his face with his hands. “He fucking, you know—” he makes an obscene gesture with one hand. “Burns off steam in the shower. Every fucking time. Even when he  _ knows _ what happens.”

Jesus Christ. Oh god. You are in Harry Styles’ body and you do  _ not _ want to think about what Louis Fucking Tomlinson is telling you. 

But you’re already thinking about it. 

“Are you telling me…” you hedge. “That when Harry Styles gets himself off… he then switches bodies with a random person?”

“They’ve all been in the same country so far,” Louis says. “So. Not entirely random.”

“Okay,” you say. “Alright. Cool. Nice. Um.” 

Louis seems to read your mind. “He has to do it again to switch you back.”

Perfect. Lovely. Wonderful. This is something that will haunt your dreams and nightmares alike. 

“So I’m just going to… hang out here,” you say. “As Harry Styles. In your house. Until he gets back to my house and…”

“Yep,” says Louis.

“Ah,” you say.

“I mean,” Louis says. “People seem to be very impressed with the muscles. You could do pushups if you wanted. Or go jogging. It’d serve him right to get back in his own body and be totally lost.”

As much as Harry’s body  _ does _ seem to be made for jogging, it just doesn’t seem to have a lot of appeal right now. Like, what if you ran into a fan? You might say something stupid like, “Hello, I am Harry Styles and definitely not someone who has body swapped with Harry Styles,” and that would sound ridiculous and probably make it onto the front page of the Sun. 

“I think maybe I’ll say here,” you say.

“How did Harry even know how to get to your work?” Louis asks, as he seems to have been pondering this while you imagined accidentally saying deranged things in Harry’s body.

“Instinct?” you ask. “Muscle memory?”

“Definitely not. He’s never had that before.”

You wonder, for a moment, if Harry Styles is actually at your work. Or if he just wandered into a random building and started working.

“Oh!” You say. “My I.D. badge has my work address on it!”

He nods along. “And I hope you have fingerprint identification on your phone so he doesn’t try to guess your password, right?” 

You nod.

“That’s good, one guy didn’t and we ended up sending him a new phone in the mail afterward, because Harry managed to lock him out of it for six weeks.”

“Oh no,” you say. Also, you start running through the pictures in your camera roll. There’s not incriminating photos on there, right? Like, nudes? Wait, Harry’s definitely already seen your naked body. Oh no. Actually, more worryingly, you probably have pictures of Harry and Louis on there. That might be worse. 

Well. It’s a good thing that you’ll probably never look Harry in the eye, right?

“How long does it take to get home from your work?” Louis asks. “No offense, you’re a lovely conversationalist,” (you’re not, he’s lying through his teeth), “But I  _ would _ like an eta on my husband’s whereabouts.”

You make a face. “Five minutes if my car starts.”

Louis laughs.

You have made Louis Fucking Tomlinson laugh.

Good, you can die happy. 

“So… how often does this happen, exactly?” you ask, broaching the subject since you’re already  _ in a conversation. _ Might as well push your luck.

Louis makes a face. “Uhhh… It’s a recent thing. You’re only the… seventh?”

“If that’s recent, I think you probably fight about dishes too much.”

_ “Hey.” _ He complains. “Dishes are terrible. I shouldn’t have to do them every time.”

You hold your hands up. “I’m not about to get in the middle of that argument,” you say. “But also, you’re rich. You should just hire someone to do your dishes.”

“You’re not the first person to suggest that and I will say to you what I said to all of them; absolutely not. I don’t want some stranger coming in here and snooping on my mug collection.”

“You mean like I’m doing right now?”

“Are you  _ snooping?” _ Louis asks.

Well. Now you want to.

“I have nothing else to do,” you say with a shrug. 

He gives you a look that says  _ well played. _ “Fine,” he says. “Snoop all you want, it’s not like you can take pictures.”

That’s permission enough for you. You start opening cabinets at random, until you find one filled to overflowing with a cacophony of mugs in different shapes and colours. Too many of them are phallic. 

You’re halfway through pulling them all out one by one to admire when you feel a sharp tug behind your navel, and you turn just in time to see Louis Fucking Tomlinson waving goodbye with a smug little smile.

Suddenly you’re on your bed in your own house. 

You feel strangely relaxed and at peace.

Holy  _ shit, _ Harry Styles.  


— 

Two days later, a large fruit basket arrives at your door. There’s a packet of cat treats stuck between the mangoes.

_Thank you for your hospitality,_ the added note reads. _The treats are for Baby Bitch. She was a darling._

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked? this?? I have a fic post [here](https://londonfoginacup.tumblr.com/post/619374711305125888/this-might-as-well-just-happen)


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